


a gift, a kiss

by orphean



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Extended Universe, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Birthday, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29563512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: It’s Bruce’s birthday. He has an unexpected visitor.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 18
Kudos: 91





	a gift, a kiss

**Author's Note:**

> This last week has been the most difficult of my life (shout out to my fellow Texans!) and when I woke up this morning and realised I hadn’t written anything that I could post on my boy Bruce’s birthday, I knew I had to fix that. As such, please enjoy this quick piece of Bruce being a little depressed and very in love.

It wasn’t a special birthday. It wasn’t like his fortieth birthday where, to appease Gotham’s expectations of him, he threw a big hubbub at the downtown Ritz, complete with champagne fountains and caviar canapés. It wasn’t like his forty-fifth, which he spent in silent contemplation, drinking a bottle of red Burgundy that tasted like lilacs and manure before switching to young scotch, the burn of the peat tasting like ash in his mouth. He had thought about Superman. He had thought about Clark.

No, it was a normal birthday, one of those that didn’t matter. Every birthday until one’s twenty-first matters. After that, there are two birthdays per decade: the something-and-fifth and each new decade. A forty-sixth birthday was just another day, though Alfred had made French onion soup and they had shared a bottle of a fine Jura Chardonnay. After dinner, Bruce started a fire in the living room while Alfred cleared up. He watched the wispy flames grow to a roaring fire. The lake and woods were dark. The fireplace reflected itself in orange and red on the glass walls.

Bruce poured them a measure of whisky each: Speyside for Alfred, Campbeltown for himself. They talked and it was nice, comforting and comfortable. They kept the topics to things that didn’t hurt. They talked about the English soccer teams’ recent awful performance; they talked about how the women’s teams should be recognised. They talked about the latest daft mystery novel they both had read. Alfred told him about how the new butcher apprentice at his favourite shop liked to give him extra cuts of meat. Bruce winked at him over his Glencairn glass and told him to milk that for all that it was worth. Alfred countered that the Wayne fortune could afford to pay for an extra quarter pound of filet mignon.

‘It’s nice to have an admirer.’

Alfred grumbled that the girl was almost young enough to be his granddaughter and if anyone should have admirers, it should be Bruce. Bruce didn’t know what face he made, but Alfred quickly moved to another topic.

They talked about home repairs and cars and poetry. They talked about ill-fitting shoes, society’s obsession with athleisure, and the depravity of Crocs. They talked about this and that. They didn’t talk about the Manor, which was being slowly rebuilt with each passing day. They didn’t talk about his parents. They didn’t talk about Clark.

Bruce did not know how Alfred had figured that out, but having been around him his entire life, Bruce forgave him for seeing through him even when he wanted to be opaque. Alfred had addressed it only once. Clark had come by, his hair tousled from the wind, his grin as radiant as always. He had healed well after – well, after being dead. He looked fresh and hale, strong in a way Bruce yearned for. (Clark’s strength was not all Bruce yearned for.) He was working a case, he said, and he wanted Bruce’s eyes on it. He hadn’t stayed long. He never did. Bruce didn’t think it was that Clark disliked him. Bruce hoped it wasn’t that Clark could see through him and was offended, appalled that Bruce had the gall to go from hate to… (Even to himself, Bruce had a hard time admitting it was love.) But Alfred – Alfred could see through him. He had looked up from the batarangs he had been sharpening once the lake entrance was closed again and asked: _Are you ever going to do anything about that, Master Bruce?_ Bruce had looked at him. Alfred had known well enough not to push the topic.

The evening turned to night, and Alfred finished his second whisky with a satisfied sigh.

‘I believe it is time to call it a night, Master Bruce.’ He stood up and stretched his back, his hands in the small of his back. Bruce could hear the _crack_ of his joints. ‘Don’t stay up later than you should. And remember –‘ Alfred lowered his glasses and glared at him, ‘no going out.’

‘Roger that.’

Bruce rolled the scotch in his mouth. It tasted of the warmth and soot of a beach bonfire and the soft embrace of toffee and fried fruits.

‘Happy birthday, son.’

Alfred knew better than to hug him, but Bruce appreciated the hand on his shoulder. He dipped his head against Alfred’s cold knuckles, a strange mimicry of an embrace. Alfred chuckled and ruffled Bruce’s hair before he retired to his quarters. Bruce heard the door close. He combed his hair down with his fingers and nursed his whisky. He wasn’t quite ready to sleep yet.

The soft knock on the door surprised him. If the house hadn’t been quiet with only the low thrum of the HVAC breaking the stillness, Bruce wouldn’t have heard it. After checking the front door camera, he opened the door.

Clark stood on the porch, looking windswept and warm in the cold night. He was wearing his civilian clothes, his leather jacket unzipped and a thin checkered shirt layered over a white tee.

‘Hey, I thought you’d be up.’ His breath misted in the cold. ‘Can I come in?’ 

There was a nervous tension in his voice, a note of trepidation. He ducked his head as he entered the house, walking past Bruce with his hands in his jacket pockets. Bruce closed the door and studied Clark. Clark fidgeted under his gaze before he seemed to come to a decision. He straightened his back and held his head high. He carried himself like the Kryptonian marvel, not the busy-body reporter. Bruce was in awe at how easily he could move between the roles and at how stark the difference was.

‘It’s your birthday.’ Clark stated.

‘Yes, I noticed. And you come to my house at’ – Bruce checked his watch – ‘eleven fifteen to, what, wish me a happy birthday?’

Bruce could hear himself, how the drawl of his voice made it sound like he was mocking Clark. He wished he could sound kind. Clark flashed him a grin that looked anxious and apprehensive.

‘Kind of, I guess. I, uh, wanted to give you a birthday present.’ 

Clark was empty-handed. Bruce looked at him up and down, from his worn working boots to his jeans that would look better if they were only a little more snug (and Bruce reprimanded himself for being distracted, for being objectifying when Clark was just being a friend). Perhaps he had the gift in his jacket pocket. Clark looked good in leather.

‘Okay.’

‘Right, so.’ Clark took a step closer, then another. He was close enough now that Bruce could clearly see the impossible blues of his eyes, could count each of the barely-there freckles scattered over his nose and cheekbones. ‘I want you to promise me that you won’t get mad or bring out the kryptonite.’

Bruce couldn’t bite back the laugh. It sounded cruel in the space between them. Clark’s face fell, just a little. Bruce wished he could get through a single interaction with Clark without hurting him.

‘I promise.’ 

‘You promise?’ Clark asked again, still moving closer.

In the chill of the lakehouse Bruce could feel the warmth of Clark. He wanted to cover himself in that warmth.

‘Promise.’

His response was barely an exhale because Clark was touching him now, both his hands planted on his shoulders. Even in this slight touch, Bruce could feel his power, his strength. He wanted to lean in. One of Clark’s hands moved up his shoulder to his neck, planting his thumb behind his ear and clasping his fingers around the back of Bruce’s neck.

This couldn’t be happening.

Couldn’t.

Yet it was happening: Clark closed the space between them and brushed his lips against Bruce’s. Bruce was self-conscious about how chapped his lips were. Bruce was beguiled by how soft Clark’s were. It was a short kiss, gentle and kind, and Clark leaned his forehead against Bruce’s.

‘Was I right?’ Clark asked.

‘Right about what?’ Bruce’s voice was breathless and rasping, perhaps too done up by just one kiss.

‘I’ve seen you looking at me.’ Clark moved back a little so he could see Bruce clearly. His eyes were wide and Bruce could almost see himself reflected in his pupils. Clark moved the hand on his shoulder down his side, dipping down to his waist. His hand came to a stop in the small of Bruce’s back. He didn’t protest when Clark pulled him against him. ‘You have been, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’

It would probably be better to lie, to keep his defenses up. But Bruce couldn’t, not with Clark pressed up against him, not with Clark’s warmth still ghosting over his lips. Clark swallowed at Bruce’s whispered word.

‘I’ve been looking at you. You never seem to catch me staring. So I thought I’d do something about it.’ Clark was looking at Bruce’s lips now, his eyes heavy, his own mouth red and inviting. Bruce couldn’t get enough of Clark looking at him like that. He knew he was staring. ‘Can I kiss you again?’

Clark shouldn’t have had to ask. Bruce finally dared to put his hands on him, a hand on his upper arm and fingers in his hair, and he kissed him like he’d wanted to since – since far too long ago. Clark gasped into the kisses, no longer chaste and short, but deep and declarative. He clung to Bruce as he moved them from the cold entryway to the living room. Clark tumbled onto the chaise lounge and grinned up at Bruce when he crawled on top of him on hands and knees.

They kissed and kissed and kissed. Clark shucked off his leather jacket but they stayed dressed, hands not dipping beneath clothes, neither of them moving their fingers below the waist. It wasn’t innocent, but it was as chaste as Bruce could bear it. (He didn’t want to keep it chaste, not forever, but for tonight he wanted to savour their intimacy, unsullied by sex.)

‘I need to tell you something.’ Pulling back from Clark was a monumental achievement, but Bruce needed to tell him this. He had lied enough.

‘What? Bruce, are you okay?’

Clark’s hand, worried and protective, came to rest against Bruce’s cheek. He leaned his face into it, closing his eyes. Clark smelled like summer and ozone.

‘I love you.’ It was easier to say it with his eyes closed, but it wasn’t fair. He opened his eyes and looked at Clark, where he lay lambent and glorious beneath him. He licked his lips and said the words again. ‘I love you.’

Bruce looked at Clark’s face, searching for any clue to his reaction. For a brief moment, his face was blank. Next, his face lit up with a brilliant smile, blinding like a reflected sun at high noon, beautiful like nothing Bruce had ever seen.

‘That’s lucky,’ Clark said, and there was laughter hiding in his words, soft and excited. His eyes darted from Bruce’s eyes to his lips, and he reached out to touch Bruce’s face with his other hand as well, as if to prove that he was there, that he was real. ‘I love you, too.’

Clark kissed him again, touching Bruce as though each touch could anoint him with his love. Bruce didn’t want anything else. He wanted Clark and somehow, in some impossible and unbelievable way, Clark wanted him to. He kissed him like he never wanted to let him go. He kissed him like he was the moon and the stars. Bruce clung to him and felt warm in his love.

As regular birthdays go, it was a damn good one.


End file.
